Ash Wood
by semicolonial
Summary: "One last swing, upwards and into my own heart." Feyre can no longer cope after the events Under the Mountain. Trigger warnings may apply.


_**TRIGGER WARNINGS: Suicide, negativity, dark thoughts. Very mild gore.**_

 **Summary: "One last swing, upwards and into my own heart." Feyre can no longer cope after the events Under the Mountain. Dark, OOC. Takes place post-ACOTAR.**

 **ACOTAR belongs to the lovely Sarah J. Maas; this concept is mine.**

* * *

She doesn't see much of Tamlin or Lucien anymore.

Tamlin had business to take care of, that much Feyre understood; he often was absent with the heavy task of finishing off the last of Amarantha's subjects or the nightmares that she had once unleashed upon Spring Court. He arrived late nights, his lean body falling exhaustedly into place next to Feyre's own.

She would often be asleep by then, numbed with the weight of her own guilt.

Lucien was rarely around her, either. He was like a wildfire, spreading from court to court and taking down those loyal to Amarantha and leaving behind the ones with the right intentions. At the top of his agenda were his brothers; when he could, he would have dinner with them, but some nights he couldn't and would return later than Tamlin.

Feyre often ate her lunches and dinners by herself, servants looking at her pityingly when they brought her dishes piled high with the foods she once loved. Sometimes Alis would keep her company, fussing over her boys while talking to her. But Alis never stayed for long, often excusing herself to take care of chores around the manor, and Feyre would retire to her painting room to await her lover or her friend.

She hasn't dared to paint their unmasked faces.

-o-

Her long fingers ache when she picks up a fork, carefully pinching the handle in trepidation. Her newfound strength is impossibly jarring, and she found herself breaking the smallest things from paintbrushes to pencils and to cutlery. It seems the only things she can destroy purposely were the letters to her sisters, painstakingly written before the shaky, nervous writing melted away in the fireplace.

-o-

Tamlin and Lucien notice her weariness, the violet circles rising beneath her eyes like dark suns. It happens at dinner on one of the rare days they can manage to make it home early enough to spend time with Feyre. Tamlin's green eyes sharpen, meeting with the russet pair of his emissary. They share the same concern for their friend as Lucien shifts and Tamlin clears his throat.

They exchange a meaningful glance before Lucien sighs and prods Feyre under the table, his sharp voice softer with his worry.

It still slits the silence.

"You've been acting strangely lately."

As Feyre hums noncommittally, Tamlin throws a sharp glance in his friend's direction. "What Lucien means to say is, 'are you alright?'"

She looks up, a smile plastering across her face. It doesn't reach her eyes.

"Never been better."

-o-

The thought reaches her one morning as she paints. Her paintbrush, soft and smooth in her hand, punches through the canvas like an arrow. The sound of tearing paper makes her pause in horror and flee the room.

She sound is too much like tearing flesh, like the flesh of the two High Fae she had murdered and still presumed to paint. Their smiling eyes trail after her, growing colder and colder and _colder_ with each passing second. Her brush, after all, had cut into the paper right where the boy's heart would be.

-o-

Her nights are often filled with terrors and cold sweats and waking up with her arms tangled in sheets and her legs tangled in Tamlin's. Her eyes stream with tears on those nights. Tamlin wakes up, wrapping his arms around her and whispering comfort into her ears. She greedily drinks it up, though she knows she doesn't deserve to. Then she falls onto her back, her spine cold with terror.

On these nights she remembers the beautiful eyes of the High Fae male she killed, the musical voice of the girl. Then her voice, hushed in prayer, cackles as Amarantha scrapes her bloodied fingernails down her chest. Her screams are loud and withering throughout the cavern, and when Feyre looks up, it's not Amarantha's hands covered in blood.

It's hers.

-o-

 _Do you even live the days you would have died for?_

-o-

Rhysand comes to her one day, eyes sorrowful as he looks upon her state. His deal had not once been forgotten, and when he takes her elbow and leads her into the vast lands of Night Court, his voice is gentler than she could have expected it to be.

"I'm sorry to see you turning out this way."

She looks at him, eyes narrowed, before tearing her arm away.

"Why do you care?"

It's his turn to sneer at her now, and his lip twitches in annoyance. "You've endured so much, and you've helped so many. You were literally _dead_ , Feyre, and the High Lords turned you into this; you think we don't care about seeing our gift withering like a dead plant?"

She wears her bitter scowl confidently, her hand covering her heart. His eyes trail it before meeting hers, and he nods his chin at her chest once. "That human heart of yours. It really is killing you, isn't it?"

She wishes his words are true to the core.

-o-

Her return to Spring Court is full of long embraces and squinting eyes, and she can barely bring herself to open her curtain in the morning. The brightness of the sun reflecting off the lush green grass is enough to make her head ache, and Tamlin and Lucien tease her about it. She can feel the strain and joins in on their forced chuckles, pretending not to notice their catching gazes and the alarm bells she can almost hear ringing in their heads.

"You don't have to worry about me," she reassures them one day. "I'll really be fine. Night Court did nothing, and all that matters is that I'm home now."

Satisfied with her answer, Tamlin rests his hand on the small of her back, and Lucien shakes his hand and excuses himself. Feyre relishes in the warmth of her High Lord, shuddering at the reminder of the cold mountains of Night.

-o-

Time doesn't let her forget. It doesn't let Rhysand, either. He returns to claim her again and again, and he disappears in the shadows of his manor before she can say a word. She only sees him in passing; she should be happy with this, but she can't. It allows her more time to think.

The feel of the knife gliding into flesh, the sounds of shocked, hateful gasps, and the warmth of blood coating her hand all amplify until they pound into her head like a child's scream; loud, painful, and impossible to ignore.

Her returns to Spring Court begin to lose their luster, and she can see how Tamlin and Lucien begin to notice. Perhaps it's in the way Lucien replaces witty quips with gentle, friendly questions. Or maybe it's the way Tamlin's caresses grow more soft, more loving, as though she is a rose petal waiting to tear.

And she hates it.

Her frustration ripples in her paintings, and the colors clash together as harshly as blood on a battlefield. The soft hues she now has a name for turn bleak in her hands. She can never bring herself to stop painting Under the Mountain, from the fiery hair of Amarantha to Tamlin's cold, unfeeling stare.

It happens one day, and the thought never stops after.

She's painting herself in the dungeon, cold and bleeding, when a strange thought comes to her. She watches her brush blankly, remembering the feel of tearing paper when she first ripped the canvas over the heart of the High Fae male. And slowly, carefully, she dips the brush in red paint and, setting it over her heart in the portrait, she punctures the canvas as though she is stabbing her own self.

The action is strangely soothing.

-o-

The calm from her death in the painting doesn't last long, and she finds herself replaying the memory in her mind. She grows cold at the dining table, her fingers aching for her canvas and brush. The high is always short and never lasting, and the brush isn't a knife. She wants _permanence._

-o-

She cries herself to sleep that night, taking a room separate from Tamlin. She strokes the features of her reflection in the morning before she takes one deep, deciding breath and picks up her pen.

-o-

 _I will be coming to you this weekend for a visit, Nesta. Has Elain planted the ash trees? The ash trees I had told you to grow when I left for Tamlin._

 _-Feyre_

-o-

She stares dully at the letter she receives back. Like her sister, it is straightforward. An odd relief washes over her as she reads Nesta's last sentence. No, not odd; she knows why the words bring her such comfort, why they are so soothing to her aching eyes. She runs one long finger over it and mouths the words.

 _The ash trees have been planted._

-o-

Tamlin readily lets Feyre visit her family, noticing her recent change in demeanor and believing time in the human world may give her a sense of home. He wants to accompany her, but she insists that he stays. "You have things to take care of here. Besides, I want to talk to Nesta and Elain about some things."

Of course, her reason is quite the opposite.

"I'll see you when you get home," he whispers, and she only smiles distantly.

"Yes, I suppose you will."

Her hand lingers on his cheek, and his own reaches up to wrap her smaller one in his. His smile is loving and soft, and she takes a moment to memorize his eyes, his lips, and every part of him her gaze can touch. She leans up on her toes, kissing him softly, before settling back down, tears in her eyes.

"I love you very much, Tam."

His brow furrows quizzically, but he smiles. "As I love you."

And the full force of what she is about to do nearly knocks her off her feet, and for a moment, she can't breathe. She's afraid. So very afraid, and in that moment, she's nothing but Feyre, the village girl who barely managed to provide for her family. She is no longer the lover of the High Lord of Spring Court. She is nothing but Feyre, and she nearly yells for the servants to unhitch the horses; she's so tempted to _stay_.

But the numbness overpowers her brief rally, and she quickly slips from Tamlin and glides to Lucien. His hands are in his pockets, head tilted curiously.

"Don't do anything stupid while you're away."

She chuckles and wipes her tears, and after a moment's hesitation, reaches up and wraps her arms around her friend's neck in an awkward, but earnest, embrace. He stiffens in surprise for only a moment before resting one hand on her back and pulling away, his stare even more prying than before.

"Take care of yourself, Lucien."

And with that, she says her goodbyes to Alis, kisses Tamlin once more, and leaves Spring Court for the last time.

-o-

"Feyre!"

It's Elain who greets her first, a flurry of gold hair and pink blush and baby-blue dress. She's all smiles, lips painted a soft pink as she takes in Feyre's new form. "You're..."

Feyre holds up a hand to stop her, eyes catching on Nesta's shocked face. "Yes, Elain, I know. And it's really a long story."

"One that I'm sure you'll tell us later." Nesta's eyebrows raise as she observes Feyre's High Fae body. "You know, you can't go out like that. People will notice your ears, and your height. It'll be a miracle if you can conceal this from our father."

Feyre nods. "I know, Nesta. Don't worry; it'll only be a short stay."

Her father is glad to see her, and he nearly throws a ball in her honor before Feyre and Nesta manage to reel him in.

"We had a ball last time," Feyre begins, "and there's really not much point in having another. People will be talking and wondering why I keep leaving so much."

"At least have a nice dinner. We can feast tonight," her father replies, eyes twinkling in happiness. She hesitates for a moment before agreeing.

The dinner really is a feast, and Feyre regretfully notes that it is her last. The food is almost near the splendor of that served at Spring Court, and she hums appreciatively at the merriment of Elain and her father, trying her best to ignore Nesta's scrutinizing gaze. Finally, her eldest sister touches her knee under the table and swirls a glass of wine.

"I thought I told you not to come back."

"Yes, well, I thought you would be sailing the world," Feyre murmurs. "Besides, I needed to come back. There's something I need to take care of here."

"I gathered, seeing as you asked about ash wood. What do you need it for?"

Feyre closes her eyes before nodding sadly at her sister and lifting her wine to her lips, and she reminisces in the sour taste— it brings up memories of the Spring Solstice.

"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Nesta."

"Really, then?"

"Really." After a moment's pause, Feyre looks back at her plate in shame. "And... I'm sorry."

Nesta purses her lips in confusion, and before she can respond, Feyre is out the door.

-o-

The bountiful grove of ash wood has grown thick and lush under Elain's careful hand, and Feyre brushes her fingers against it. Her body almost seems to respond, tingling wherever she touched the bark as though needles pricked the calloused skin there. She gazes in the direction of Prythian in sorrow before setting to work.

She has a decently sized stake when she's finished, and the splinters of a fallen ash tree crunch under her feet as she hurries back to the house.

-o-

Feyre watches the stake on her vanity. The door is locked. The curtains are closed. And the clock ticks.

She's so close, so impossibly close to the eternal peace she'd longed for. All she has to do is lift the long, thin point of ash wood and plunge it deep into her body. Nobody to stop her. Nobody to find her. The house is quiet, lulled by the sounds of the breathing souls inside. One soul less, if she can do it.

Her hands reach for the stake, one step closer, and she wonders vaguely if Tamlin or Lucien or Alis or _somebody_ had found her paintings— the paintings with the holes in her heart, the ones that triggered this moment. She wonders if they're on their way, if they'd put two and two together. She wonders who will tell them. _She wonders who will find her first._

She hopes it isn't Nesta.

Feyre can imagine Tamlin running furiously for the manor when he discovers her fate. Perhaps he is on his way now, having been warned by the gruesome images in her painting room. She waits, opening the curtains, half-expectant of a beast roaring up at her and ordering her to stop. But nothing comes, and she lets herself indulge in the idea once more before returning to sit on her bed.

For a moment, she remembers Rhysand; would he have suspected? Would he have searched the deepest recesses of her mind and seen the image of her bloody body lying there, an image she had thought of so many times? But she shakes the thoughts away and focuses on the weapon before her.

 _What a comfortable way to die_ , she thinks vaguely. Alone in her nightgown, on her lush bed, with a thick-veiled canopy so her death could be hers and hers alone. She looks out the window once more to spot a wolf roaming in her courtyard and her heart leaps with panic. But she takes in the size, the unpolished movements, and decides at once that it is not faerie. But she whispers to it anyway, praying that the wind carries her voice to its ears.

"Why did you have to cross the wall that day, Andras?"

Tears fill her eyes, and she quickly shakes them away as she hurries back to the comfort of her bed. She nestles in her pillows and allows herself to cry for a moment. She remembers Tamlin's kisses, Lucien's banter, Alis' guidance. Her breath comes in choked, quiet sobs as she gulps for air, reminiscing the joys of her life before the pains return and crush them like bugs.

She lies on her back and stairs at the canopy over her bed, the last of the tear streaks drying on her face. She breathes heavily. Her vision clears.

As if in a trance, she can imagine leaves overhead. A breeze ruffling her hair, the gentle chatter of birds in the trees. She can hear the gurgle of the stream nearby, feel the rich grass beneath her fingers. The picture is human, but in Prythian. It never quite belonged. The colors and sounds aren't as vibrant, and she knows she's seeing the world through her human eyes. But when she turns her head, sharper and clearer and more beautiful than anything else she's ever seen, is Tamlin, sleeping tranquilly beside her.

She imagines herself taking his hand, and for the moment, everything is the way it was supposed to be.

Feyre is at peace when she buries the ash wood stake deep into her heart.

* * *

 ** _Aaaaa_ nd in breaking news, I really enjoy exploring dark themes like this. Who knew.**

 **So this story is going down as complete for now. It's mostly here for writers' block; I wrote it at midnight, lying in my bed with a cup of hot cocoa and my laptop burning off my thighs (also, who's ever heard of proofreading?). If you guys want, I can write an epilogue perhaps with the folks at Spring Court finding out, but honestly, I'm pretty cool with where this ended.**

 **As for Relinquere, the next chapter is in the works. It's kind of a pain in the neck right now, but I'll manage.**

 **Anyhow, please review! If enough people ask for it, I'll probably consider adding an epilogue. Hope you guys enjoyed, and if you have any other fic requests for me, go ahead and PM me or just write a review on one of my ACOTAR stories (this one and my multichapter one). Have a great day!**


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